[_They fight: Pike disarmes & tripps him downe_. _Pike_. Onely a _Devonshire_ hugg, sir:--at your feete I lay my winnings. _Tia_. Diable! [_Exit, biting his thumb[44]; the soldiers stampe_. _Gyr_. Wilt venter on oanother? _Pike_. I beseech you To pardon me, and taske me to no more. _Alq_. Come, come, one more; looke you, here's a young Cockerell[45] Comes crowing into the pitt. [_Another steps in_. _All_. Prithee, fight with him. _Pike_. I'me in the Lyon's gripe & to gett from him There's but one way; that's death. _Mac_. _English_, What say you? will you fight or no? _Pike_. Ile fight. _All_. Give 'em roome! make way there! _Pike_. Ile fight till every Joynt be cutt in pieces To please such brave spectators; yes Ile fight While I can stand, be you but pleasd, my Lords, The noble Dukes here, to allow me choice Of my owne Country weapon. _All_. What? _Pike_. A Quarter staffe,--this, were the head off. _Mac_. Off with the head, and roome! How dost thou like this _Spaniard_? _Pike_. Well: he's welcome. Here's my old trusty frend: are there no more? One! what, but one? why, I shall make no play, No sport before my princely Judges with one. More sackes to the Mill! come, another! what, no more? _Mac_. How many wouldst thou have? _Pike_. Any number under six. _All_. Ha, ha, sure he's mad! _Mac_. Dar'st coape with Three? _Pike_. Where are they? let 'em shew their faces: so; welcome! _Mac_. How dost thou like these chickens? _Pike_. When I have drest them With sorrell sopps Ile tell you. _Lady_. Now guard him heaven! [_Drums. They fight, one is killd, the other 2 disarmed_. 1. Hell take thy Quarter staffe! 2. Pox on thy quarters! _Mac_. The matter? why this noyse? [_A noyse within of Diable Englese_. _Jay_. The soldiers rayle, stampe & stare, and sweare to cutt His throat for all the Jaylors care of him. _Mac_. Make proclamation, my lord _Fernando_, That who soever dares but touch his finger To hurt him, dyes. _Fer_. I will, sir. [_Exit_. _Lady_. This is done nobly. _Mac_. Here, give him this gold. _Ten_. The Duke _Macada_ gives you this gold. _All_. And this. _Ten_. The Duke of _Medina_ this; Duke _Gyron_ this; &, looke you, the Marquesse _Alqueveza_ as much as all the rest. _Alq_. Where's any of my men? give him your Cloake, sirra; Fetch him cleane Band and Cuffs. I embrace thee, _Pike_; And hugg thee in my armes: scorne not to weare A _Spanish_ livery. _Pike_. Oh, my Lord, I am proud of't. _Mac_. He shalbe with a Convoy sent to the King. _Alq_. 4 of my gentlemen shall along with him: Ile beare thy charges, soldier, to _Madrid_, 5 peeces of 8 a day in travell, & Lying still thou shalt have halfe that. _Pike_. On my knees Your vassaile thankes heaven, you, and these Princes.